


In the Morning, I'll Call You.

by afellowofinfinitejest



Series: Jerome Angst [2]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Language, F/M, Jerome Gets Shot, POV Second Person, Reader-Insert, reader just wants stir fry and love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-20
Updated: 2018-11-20
Packaged: 2019-08-26 19:21:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16687480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afellowofinfinitejest/pseuds/afellowofinfinitejest
Summary: Based on prompt from otpdisaster on tumblr: "Person B knowing they’re undoubtedly about to die within the next few seconds, likely from the gaping wound they’re bleeding out from. Instead of calling for help, they phone Person A and carry on a casual conversation as if nothing is wrong, making sure to mention how much they love them before their time runs out."





	In the Morning, I'll Call You.

He’s been shot in the arms plenty of times. He’s had more holes in his legs than he has had years on this earth. Hell, bullets have been known to make their way through his torso on the odd occasion. 

But not like this.

He can feel it. More intense than his previous wounds which only ever encouraged him to keep going, knowing he was doing something right if people were so passionate enough to shoot at him. It’s a dense pain, similar to a stitch, inside him. Jerome clutches at his side as he runs. He can make out the harsh yell of sirens in the distance. It’s the sound which used to send that perfect thrill surging through him, that adrenaline, that chill down his spine that has always driven his choices. Now, it seems almost threatening. 

He stops when the pain starts to spread through his stomach. Jerome doubles over, laughing through a harsh groan. Well, fuck, he thinks, you’ve really done it now.

Jerome finds himself pressed against a back door to some Italian restaurant, tucked away in the crevice. He drops, letting out a long breath through his nose on the way down. A pause. Then, he glances at his wound, removing his hand from the impressive hole under his right pectoral. His palm is slippery with his own blood, and even he has to turn away. 

Fuck.

Jerome presses his fingers along the expanse of his back, ignoring the futility of looking for an exit wound. He knows, really, exactly what is happening. For a second, he regrets irritating that underground doctor the way he did. But the man deserved a bit of a fright. Still, it’s unlikely that anything could save him now.

Jerome prides himself on his ease of acceptance. When he realised his mother hated him, he resigned himself to simply hating her back. When James Gordon figured him out, he didn’t go to court screaming innocence, he gave them all a reason to remember him. When you told him that you love him for the first time, something deep inside told him, no, no, not her, let her be, run, but he didn’t lash out. Instead, he’d nodded, made a quip about how that was inevitable. It went against his very nature to accept love. He did it anyway, because he’s an accepting person. But he’s finding this pretty hard to come to terms with. 

Not dying, of course. He just can’t stand goodbyes.

Jerome coughs, tastes the metallic warmth until he has to spit out his own blood. Feeling rebellious, he presses his left hand on the wound. 

No, not right now, give me a minute.

With his other hand, he reaches in to his back pocket, grumbling when he has to stretch to grasp on to his phone. Pressing the numbers takes longer than it should, but Jerome tosses his head around rapidly, ignoring the sudden lightness. 

Your voice, all softness and innocent joy in reaction to his call. “Hey, Jerome.”

He pauses, heart aching, then, “Hey there, (Y/N).”

“When are you getting home?” You always call it that. The crappy little flat you share with him. He hadn’t thought about it, until then. Home. Seems a pretty good place to be, now, no matter how cold it gets in the Winter. “I was thinking stir fry for dinner, ‘cause we have so many vegetables going out of date. But it is your turn to cook.”

“Damn, I forgot.” His voice sounds too even for a person in his situation, but he doesn’t want to contemplate the fallout if he were to give the game away. “Can you do it?”

“Sure, don’t worry. Are you coming home at all today?”

“That’s the thing, doll. I don’t think I can. Not today.”

“Okay.” You’re disappointed, and Jerome is pleased at that. Good, he thinks, miss me. Then, “Stay safe.” It sounds as though you’re expecting the call to end there, but Jerome feels the need to keep you talking. Maybe it’s selfish, but in times like these, he needs that blind optimism you hold in spades. It’s probably one of the reasons he-

“Don’t go so soon,” he says, “tell me-” a cough. Blood landing, thick, on the circle of his hand. He closes his eyes, thinking of you sitting there, with him. He can almost feel your warm breath caressing his cheek. “-tell me what you’re wearing.”

“Nuh uh, mister. Only people who cook dinner get phone sex.”

He laughs loudly, taking no notice of the blood spreading around his mouth. “I’m not asking. I just, uh, wish I could see you.”

“And whose fault is it that you can’t?” You tease, not understanding, not hearing that twist of regret in his voice. 

“Yeah, yeah,” he dismisses. Then, “please tell me.”

It’s then doubt starts to edge against the back of your mind. “…that old t-shirt of yours, the grey one, and jeans.” Then quicker. “What’s going on Jerome?”

“So suspicious all the time.” Jerome chuckles, knowing the exact face you’re making. Eyebrows pulled together, chewing your lip. You’re probably pacing, too. “Nothing’s going on.” He sighs, a sudden sharp snap hit of pain flashing through his chest, then his abdomen until it becomes a consistent gnawing in every part of his torso. “Hey, (Y/N)?”

“Yes, Jerome?”

“Listen, I love you, yeah?” 

Jerome cringes, but it’s already out there. He hadn’t meant for it to sound the way it does, like it doesn’t tear at him to admit it. Like every part of him isn’t yelling, no, just let her go, just leave it.

You bristle at his tone. Jerome is the last person you’d expect to mention that sort of thing over the phone. You almost call him a coward, wondering how - wondering what possesses him to frustrate you in the ways he does. It’s too casual, too without thought. You’d almost rather he hadn’t said it at all, if he didn’t care enough to say it to your face. 

“You shouldn’t say that if you don’t mean it, Jerome. So don’t.”

“No, doll, fuck-” He runs his hand through his hair in frustration. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. You were supposed to understand, supposed to offer him some level of absolution. You were supposed to let him know that, if this goes the way he knows it is going, he would be leaving behind at least one person who might care. Just a bit. Jerome avoids contemplating the reality - doesn’t like thinking about you crying over this, of all things - something he can’t control. Making you sob, it had always been something of a game for him, until it wasn’t.

He hates that you make him say it again. “I love you. I do…Should’ve said it earlier, probably-” he coughs again, violently, and then he can’t stop, covering the bottom of the phone to stop you from hearing. 

He struggles to regain his breath as you answer, thick liquid he can’t swallow coating his throat until each of his breaths comes with a rasp. 

“It doesn’t matter.” Soft, forgiving, but still not grasping exactly what it is that’s happening. The suspicion in your voice fades away with, “I love you, too. But you know that already.”

“I do. I do know that.” Quiet in an attempt to hide his stressed throat. There’s more. More he wants to tell you, more to explain. His actions, everything he’s ever said to you. He has reasons for it all. But there’s not time. He settles for, “it wasn’t a priority, you know. Hurting you all the times that I have.”

On the other side of the line, you’re raising your eyebrows in surprise, now sure that something must be happening. You don’t imagine the reality, even then. You think, maybe, that Jerome is in a prison cell, or getting ready to leave forever. 

“I didn’t think you made hurting me a priority, Jerome. But you’ve never prioritised my feelings either.” You sigh, knowing that this is the closest Jerome has ever come to an apology. “Now isn’t the time to be having this conversation.”

“You’re right, of course.” He makes another noise, can only liken it to a dying animal. “Listen, I’ll see you later, gorgeous.”

“Promise?” Lighter, but edging on serious, maybe threatening. He aches for the loss of that tone of voice. He’s the only one that gets that, sweet yet forbidding. It’s all his, maybe more so than other parts of you.

Your question might pose a moral dilemma for some people. But the way Jerome sees it, he’s surely going to hell anyway, so what’s the point in telling the truth? Die as you lived, so to speak. “Of course, dollface. I promise.”

“Okay. I’ll see you soon…” Then, timidly, testing him. “I love you.”

“I…” His eyes clench shut in pain. “I love you, too.”

The dull click of the phone as you hang up is decidedly final. His shirt is wet, now, sticking to the lines of his stomach. The call of sirens has been a constant these past minutes, growing louder with every minute. He wonders who will find his body, chuckles lightly at the thought of Jim Gordon coming upon him, wondering how he could have helped the troubled teenager.

Pain, again, of another type. Less acute, more heavy. Still, he figures, I’ve paid my dues. Jerome thinks over his life, short though it may have been. The lightest parts of it, all with you. 

When he imagined his death, Jerome fancied himself passing in some kind of chemical explosion, or a car exploding, or a boat - also exploding. Some kind of explosion, that was his goal. Despite this, he finds he doesn’t despair over leaving the way he is. The events leading up to that cop shooting him did cause quite a bit of trouble, which he counts as a positive. 

Jerome realises, in the end, that he’s quite brave. 

He doesn’t cry. But he does regret.

Jerome ends with your face behind his eyes, your mumbled singing in his mind.

In the morning, I’ll call you  
Can’t you find a clue?  
When your eyes are all painted Sinatra blue.

**Author's Note:**

> This can be read, along with my other Jerome writing, on my tumblr, afellowofinfinitejest


End file.
